Operation Sheba (26 page)

Chapter Forty

Staring through the peephole, she relaxed, let out the breath she was holding and returned her gun to her waistband. She called to Con and Smitty, “It’s Cari.”

“Make sure she’s alone,” Con said from his hiding place behind the living room doorway.

Julia double-checked. “She’s alone.” She unlocked and opened the door.

Cari pushed by her. “I need a drink. What do you have?”

“Excuse me?”

Cari paused to look Conrad over as he emerged from hiding. “You again.”

“Ditto,” he replied.

Continuing on to the kitchen, Cari addressed Smitty who was standing by the back door. “Liquor.” Her tone was demanding. “What do you have?”

Julia exchanged a look with Conrad, and he rolled his eyes.

Cari threw herself down in a chair across from Ace and rested her forehead in her hands. “What a night.” Raising her head, she pointed at Smitty. “Why are you not getting me something to drink?”

“I’ll drive you down to the liquor shop and buy you a case of the finest brandy they have,” Conrad said, “as soon as you tell me what Plan B is.”

Cari dropped her head slightly and gave him a wide-eyed look. “Raissi.”

Julia’s brain clicked with instant recognition. “Fayez Raissi? The terrorist?”

Cari smoothed a section of her hair back. “You mean the great CIA analyst didn’t know? Susan has been throwing him into your lap for the past week and you did not guess?”

Julia put her fingers to her mouth and looked up at the ceiling, feeling like a fool. Then she took a deep breath, drew out a chair and sat next to Cari. “Susan brought Raissi here to take Michael and the others hostage.”

“No.” Cari wagged a finger at her. “I brought Fayez here. He is a rude lout too. I almost gave him another scar to carry around.”

Smitty leaned against the counter. “But Susan provided his papers, right? To get him in the country? She’s using him as her backup plan.”

“Of course. But, his plan and her plan…” Cari tipped her flat hand back and forth. “I don’t think they were the same plan. Fayez, he wanted to blow something big up, not take hostages.”

“Something big?” Smitty echoed. “Like what? A building? A bridge? A power plant?”

Cari smiled. “The Agency.”

Conrad whistled under his breath. “So why did he end up at Stone’s house with three hostages?”

Cari shrugged. “All I know is everybody is supposed to die.”

“Jesus,” Julia said softly. Her stomach felt like someone was wringing her insides out like a wet washcloth. She had to get to the hostage site and let the FBI know who they were dealing with and what his plans were.

She rose from the table. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’m going too,” Cari said. “With you.”

“No,” Con and Smitty said in unison.

Julia checked herself. “You can’t come with me, Cari.”

Cari smiled. “We are a team, now.” She pointed to each of them and herself. “If Stone and Allen die, I have no one to protect me, except the three of you.” She glanced at Ace. “And you, I guess.”

Ace puffed out his chest and offered Cari his hand. “Ace Harmon, wheelman.”

Cari shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, wheelman.”

Conrad threw his hands in the air. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“We’re wasting time.” Julia grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair. “Let’s go.”

Cari gave Conrad a look. “Don’t forget, you owe me a case of brandy.”

“Don’t forget, I carry a big gun,” he murmured as he grabbed his own jacket and followed Julia out the door.

It was almost time.

The terrorist leader watched reporter Gus Schultz end his commentary and felt a ripple of anticipation in his stomach. The news was out to the American people. Panic would be setting in as word spread. The West would again be gripped with fear, glued to their television sets in shock that yet another terrorist had invaded their sacred homeland. What destruction would he impart? What classified secrets would escape from the hostages’ lips to endanger their safety even more? Arguments between the warmongers and the peace lovers would break out, slowing the behemoth government of the United States from making any decisions before the day was over.

The anchorwoman solemnly announced that CNN would run continual coverage of the hostage crisis in order to keep their viewers updated on the latest happenings. Raissi flipped through several other channels on the TV and saw the other networks were doing the same. Valid information was, as usual, scarce, but wild conjecture and equally wild opinions flourished as each network fought for top position in the ranks, interviewing anyone deemed an expert that they could get their hands on.

This pleased the terrorist. Keeping the politicians and the military analysts guessing served a valuable purpose in his plan. Strangling the people of the United States of America with fear was icing on his cake.

Raissi turned down the TV’s volume and sat back in the recliner, steepling his fingers under his chin. His plan was morphing again. He and his compatriots had brought their
jihad
to the enemy, and instead of one spectacular at CIA headquarters, he had seized the opportunity from Susan Richmond to use the leaders in this house as a different, but just as powerful, spectacular against America. He planned no demands or negotiations, only a brutal lesson, execution-style, about interfering with the Arab world.

But now Raissi saw another opportunity. Before the executions, he could speak out for his family, his neighbors and his country in a way no other brother of Islam had been able to before him. Americans worshiped their televisions and believed the daily propaganda it imparted. What better resource to use to spread the truth about his people and their fight against the unholy West? He had already used specially prepared videos in his homeland to spread his doctrine there. What better way to immortalize his name in the history books with the vengeance he was bringing in the name of justice?

Smiling, Raissi rose from his seat and began calculating the risk of his new plan as he paced the floor. He could control the risks with a few simple demands and that would work in his favor. Having studied the counterterrorism tactics of the United States, Raissi knew the FBI negotiators would try to play with him, prolonging the hostage situation for the amount of time it took them to figure out who he was and how they could destroy him with minimal collateral damage. The game would begin with him stating his demands and then the FBI would dance around those demands, buying time for their commandos to form a plan to take him out and Congress to okay it.

In order to keep the FBI and the U.S. government feeling in control, he needed to make his first contact with the FBI short and simple. Give them a false sense of confidence and hope by making his first demand easy to fulfill.

Raissi felt the ripple again in his stomach. His smile widened. He was excited.

Collecting specific terrorist information and planning for every possible contingency was a superhuman feat, but in the middle of the controlled chaos of their hostage situation, someone, God bless them, had remembered to make coffee and score cinnamon rolls. Tim Buchanan, now seated at the table where all the planning was going on, sipped from a Styrofoam cup and ran different strategies and outcomes through his brain.

The rectangular table was organized but overflowing with telephones, blueprints and computer printouts. Around it were translators, counterterrorism
cognoscenti
and the senior chief, executive officer, and leader of the East Coast SEAL Team. Tim was leading the group in a discussion, prepping everyone for both negotiations and takedown if the need arose.

They all knew the need would arise. There was no such thing as a good hostage situation, but of all the ones Tim had witnessed, this one was by far the ugliest in terms of outcome scenarios. As he took another sip of coffee, he listened, not only to the words coming from those at the table, but also to the tone and other verbal nuances of his coworkers’ voices. The atmosphere of a group like this under similar conditions was always charged with a super-sized amount of electric current. That current usually pulled the members of the group into a close, cohesive unit. Today, due to the fact the hostages included a senator and the head of the United States Intelligence community, there were extra people bringing their two cents, and a lot of current, to the table. The usual balance of egos and agendas was skewed. Everyone had an opinion and few of them agreed.

Tim scribbled a note to himself as he listened to several CIA analysts discuss a list of possible terrorists who could be responsible for the current hostage situation. When the group around the table fell silent, Tim looked up and then followed the group’s attention to a spot over his shoulder.

A woman stood just inside the tent with a police escort. A CTC analyst, Tim had seen her before in the halls of Langley. Susan Richmond had been waiting for her.

He’d been waiting for her.

“Ms. Quinn,” Susan said from the far end of the table. “You finally made it. Let me introduce you.”

Everyone around the table stood as Abigail approached, and Tim saw her jaw was clenched. She disregarded Susan and addressed him with an outstretched hand. “Abigail Quinn, CIA Counterterrorism Center, sir.”

Tim shook her hand. “Tim Buchanan, FBI.”

“Yes, sir. I’m familiar with you and your team of specialists. I believe I have pertinent information on the identity of the terrorist inside Michael’s house.”

Although several of his comrades fidgeted and exchanged glances, Tim showed no surprise. Ryan Smith had already called him and told him about Julia, a.k.a. Abigail. Smiling at her, he motioned her to a chair across from him. “Please have a seat and tell us what you know.”

“Fayez Raissi,” Julia began, “is a professional terrorist who began his career at age fifteen in Kazbekistan. For the past twenty-five years, he has struck targets from Pakistan to Paris working with a variety of terrorist groups, including the GIA, and using a number of different names. He has also assassinated a string of Islamic moderates whom he accused of abandoning their faith, and he has served as a hit man for various Arab backers. Most recently he has been linked with the extremist group Takfi-wal-Hijra.”

“I’m familiar with him.” Agent Buchanan motioned to his left at Susan and the CIA’s Middle East specialist, Chuck Atwater. “But your CIA counterparts here believe the group behind this hostage situation is one of bin Laden’s sleeper cells. Why do you think Raissi is our man?”

It would have been so easy to tattle everything she knew about Susan and her plans right there and then, but Julia held herself back with tight control. Michael’s life was on the line and if she came across sounding like a raving lunatic, turning on her boss in front of all these people, he might very well die. “I’m not ruling out the involvement of bin Laden,” she said, and that was true. “Probably the men working with Raissi
are
from one of bin Laden’s sleeper cells here in the States. But Raissi’s been traveling in our direction for several months, starting in Paris, hitting London along the way, and recruiting as he went.”

Susan tapped her pencil on a stack of papers in front of her. “Why would he come here?”

Julia chose her next words carefully. “An anonymous source has come forward to say Raissi planned a spectacular on American soil.”

Susan raised one eyebrow at Julia. “Another anonymous source? How interesting. There sure are a lot of those running around tonight.”

Agent Buchanan ignored Susan. “What kind of spectacular?”

“He was planning to blow up CIA headquarters in Langley,” Julia said. “Instead, he had a change of plans and ended up here, holding Michael and the others hostage.”

“CIA headquarters? That’s pretty ambitious. You believe this hostage situation is something he would orchestrate instead?”

She nodded. “Raissi is extremely radical, but he is also extremely intelligent. I have studied his attacks and assassinations all the way back to the embassy bombings he pulled off in Paris in 1997. Taking hostages is not part of his usual bag of tricks, but he does like attention-getting spectacles so this situation is not out of the realm of possibility. As far as Raissi himself, orchestrating this entire thing”—Julia looked directly at Susan—“who knows what kind of help he’s had here in the States?”

Chuck Atwater, fresh out of the hospital, grimaced slightly as he shifted forward in his seat. “Since Raissi has been moving in this direction over the past couple of months, I believe Ms. Quinn may be right. He never does anything without a premeditated plan and he’s been lying low since 9/11, probably laying the groundwork for something of this magnitude. His original plan may not have included taking hostages in this manner, but he was definitely after the DCI. Raissi is an explosives expert. I would guarantee he was and still is planning on making a statement we won’t soon forget.”

Buchanan nodded at Chuck and returned his focus to his newest advisor. “You agree?”

“Definitely.” Julia shifted in her chair to look over her shoulder between the vans. The house sat in silence sixty yards away. “Are either of those vehicles Raissi’s?”

“No,” Buchanan said. “One’s Allen’s and the other King’s.”